


Ex Ambrosia Mutatum

by prof_lee_gate



Category: Ancient History RPF
Genre: Cicero's Philippics, Implied Antony/Curio and Antony/Caesar because Cicero's totally heterosexual fantasies, M/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prof_lee_gate/pseuds/prof_lee_gate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt:</p><p>"Marcus Tullius Cicero/Mark Antony - In his Philippics, Cicero accused Antony of having been a teenage prostitute. Clearly, the reason he knew this is that he was one of Antony's clients."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ex Ambrosia Mutatum

**Author's Note:**

> The author apologizes for everything. Historical accuracy was not anywhere in the vicinity during the writing of this work. Also, this is super late for historyfest round one.
> 
> The prompt mentions Antony being a "teenage" prostitute, and in my head he's about 16-18. 
> 
> The title is lifted from Catullus 99.

Cicero has imbibed too much wine at dinner with his friends and the night has gone to his head; this is his explanation for the madness that has overtaken his senses, the effect the boy has on him.

“How much would you charge me, then?” he asks, despite his better judgement.

Cicero has seen this dissolute youth before, always in bad company, always causing trouble. From what Cicero has observed, there is not much lower for this Antonius to fall. Cicero’s part in bringing him further down will be negligible.

And he is… alluring, it cannot be denied. A strong, lithe body, which his tunic does little to hide; features so comely as to be almost pretty. Fitting, given his line of work.   

The boy licks his lips (provocative on purpose, curse him). “Why, how much are you willing to pay?”

Antonius names a sum, then—a ridiculous amount. Were he a foreign prince sold as a slave, he might still not have fetched such a price.

So Cicero laughs in derision and means to walk away, take himself home where he will sleep off this temporary lapse in judgement. Another look into those glittering eyes, however, and his determination wavers.

Lust is a base emotion. Cicero finds himself pressing the boy into the wall anyway, panting into his neck as he spreads his buttocks.

For his money, he should draw this affair out, enjoy every slide of flesh on flesh, every taste of this dubious adventure. The boy shudders beneath him, moaning like the whore he is. Cicero thrusts into him punishingly hard, but Antonius only pushes back on his cock, taking it with obvious pleasure.

Cicero was right: whatever he can do, it will not drive Antonius towards greater ruination. Quite the contrary, it is Cicero who is tainted with every shared gasp.

A thrust, another, and he spends, the world momentarily blurring around him. When he comes to himself again, his fingers are digging into Antonius's hips; he unclenches them and steps away, watching as his cock slips out of the boy's hole.

Antonius spends a few moments with his forehead pressed into the wall, breathing harshly. When he turns to face Cicero, the stones are stained with his seed.

“Perhaps it is you who should be paying me,” Cicero says, pointed. “You appear to have been well entertained.”

Antonius only smiles at him, stretching languidly. He has no trouble meeting Cicero’s eyes, despite the indignity of what has just been done to him—of what he has let be done. “It was wise of me, then, to agree on the money upfront.”

Cicero frowns and straightens his toga. “I have no wish to bargain with you further.”

He barely gives the boy a nod and throws his purse at him before taking his leave, gripped by the urge to exit this place as soon as he can now that passion no longer holds him here. He does not wish to linger and revel in the memories of how low Marcus Tullius Cicero has fallen this night.

He makes it several paces beyond the corner before he hears voices behind him.

“Did I just witness you—what were you doing?” A voice demands. Cicero recognizes young Curio. “Did you take money from that man?”

“He thought I was a whore,” Antonius says, and Cicero stops dead.

“So you let him think it?” comes the hissed reply.

“Did we or did we not need money for the game?” Antonius protests. “Come now, it is funny.”

Whatever lingering pleasure had been coursing through Cicero’s veins in the aftermath of the coupling, it flees now, replaced with humiliation. Anger follows swiftly, and Cicero flushes with it, forcing himself to stay still with some effort.

“You’re drunk, and you take the joke too far,” Curio bites out meanwhile. “No more of this, do you hear me? I shall not have you servicing men on corners.”

“You are too serious,” says Antonius.

“And you are the only one in the whole of Rome who would say so,” Curio responds. “My father, for one—” A pause, a shuffle. Then, quieter: “I cannot believe you let him touch you. You are not some slave-boy, and now he’ll think—”

“He’ll think I completed my financial ruination with a moral one, finishing the work my father started,” Antonius interrupts, and for the first time Cicero hears a snap in his voice. “Let us go, then, and put this behind us.”

Cicero allows them to leave, but his gut still churns with fury, and if Antonius thinks he will forget this insult—this deception—he is sorely mistaken.

***

Marcus Antonius stands before the Senate, eyes roaming over the assembly in the fashion of a gladiator surveying the crowd. For this is nothing more than he is, and he has been rather less, as Cicero knows well. A place less suited to Marcus Antonius than the Senate he cannot imagine; he sullies the stones of the edifice with his very presence.

Antonius has changed with the passing of the years. He is taller, his body filled out with solid muscle, but the look in his eyes is still the same as when he was a boy, challenging Cicero in that alleyway.

They have never spoken of it, and yet they both remembered their brief encounter when they met again; Cicero is certain of this. On that occasion, he caught the flash of recognition on Antonius’s face, the slight widening of his eyes. For a moment, he thought himself triumphant, expected Antonius to lower his head in shame. He did not know Antonius well, then. Antonius has no shame.

Cicero sees him dogging Caesar’s heels and feels it only natural to wonder what services Antonius is performing for the man, for Caesar to hold him so close. Cicero knows, after all, the length Antonius will go to for gratification—the abandon with which he’ll give himself to pleasure, the way he’ll moan and writhe on a man’s cock—

Antonius pretends that nothing at all has passed between them. He dares mock Cicero now, in the political arena, as he mocked him when he was young and trading his body away as a joke.

Cicero will remind him, when the right time comes. And he’ll make sure to aim his blows well.

***

The speech unfolds in Cicero’s mind as he sits down at the writing table. This will be his second oration against Marcus Antonius, and now he will not hold back, not after Antonius has so foolishly referred to their acquaintance in his own pathetic ramblings before the Senate.

If Antonius wishes to speak of their past, Cicero can readily oblige him.

“You assumed the manly gown, which you soon made a womanly one: at first a public prostitute, with a regular price for your wickedness, and that not a low one. But very soon Curio stepped in, who carried you off from your public trade…”

Let all of Rome see Antonius for who he is.

Let Antonius look into Cicero’s eyes now, and see just how well he remembers.


End file.
